


The Body Knows

by anatomical_heart



Category: Crooked Media RPF
Genre: 2008 Campaign Era (Crooked Media RPF), Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst with a Happy Ending, Crooked Exchange 2019, M/M, Soulmarks, Soulmates, Tommy Got a Degree in Philosophy so I Put it to Good Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-26
Updated: 2019-04-26
Packaged: 2020-01-23 08:07:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18545731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anatomical_heart/pseuds/anatomical_heart
Summary: The name reveals itself after four days of red, itchy skin rubbed raw across his left wrist. He wakes up on a Tuesday morning, and suddenly it’s there. The name of his… soulmate. It’s not his birthday, it’s not Christmas or the fourth of July. It’s just… Tuesday, March 23rd, a little less than five months before he turns fifteen; he has an Algebra test later that day.





	The Body Knows

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LilyRosePotter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LilyRosePotter/gifts).



> This was not what I was originally going to write for you, Lily, but circumstances required me to change the prompt I was using at the last minute. This isn't quite what you asked for, but I hope it contains enough of your interests that you enjoy it. It was a pleasure to write. I also want to thank you for the opportunity to do the most pretentious thing I can think of: Using Foucault for fanfic purposes.

_Howard_

The name reveals itself after four days of red, itchy skin rubbed raw across his left wrist. He wakes up on a Tuesday morning, and suddenly it’s there. The name of his… soulmate. It’s not his birthday, it’s not Christmas or the fourth of July. It’s just… Tuesday, March 23rd, a little less than five months before he turns fifteen; he has an Algebra test later that day. 

He doesn’t tell anyone that he cries when he sees it. But when he sits up in bed and rubs the sleep from his eyes and catches sight of the dark letters set against his skin when he pulls his hand away, he feels… like… well, he can’t really put it into words. Like his heart is a rubber band that’s stretched too tight—almost to the point of snapping. Like that moment when he knows if he let it go, he could shoot it about thirty feet across the room, easily.

Blood rushes to his head and he can feel his ears going hot with this faint ringing sound echoing inside and his eyes start watering immediately. 

_I’m not a freak,_ is the first thing that comes to mind. 

Right after Christmas break, eight kids came back to school with their marks. _Eight._ Up until now, he’s been the only one out of his friends group who hadn’t gotten their mark, and it’s been months since Tyler, the last before him, had gotten his. Since then, Tommy worried that maybe he’d never get one. His mom tried to put him at ease just a few weeks ago, sitting him down and explaining that she’d been sixteen when she finally got hers, and it was possible he was just a late bloomer. Which was the thing he kept holding on to, even though it wasn’t very comforting at all; he hated that phrase, _late bloomer._ Said so patronizingly by the adults in his life. _They_ didn’t have to worry about it anymore, _he_ did. Because it’s everywhere, talk of names and marks. People throw around the words _fate_ and _destiny_ and _love_ like they’re parts of an equation or something—just facts that have been accepted as true and need to be solved for. 

Maybe he’s just worried about his Algebra test. 

He reaches over with his right hand and and covers the name with his palm as his tears drip onto the collar of his shirt. Right now, it’s secret and precious, belonging only to him. But it’s… also a little too much. And it feels like now that he knows it’s there, he can’t bear to see the name, in dark even script across his veins. It makes it all real. Changes the stakes. He bows his head and starts to count, trying to calm down.

Once he reaches twenty, he peels his hand back and looks again. 

_Howard_

Chest tightening a little, Tommy takes a deep breath in through his nose. 

He hadn’t expected it to be a boy. Sure, he _liked_ boys, but… the first night his wrist started to itch, he had this dream about a deep lake that held unknown treasure, which was protected from enemies by a beautiful, mysterious woman with a gleaming sword. But… apparently the old wive’s tale about dreaming of your soulmate on the first night the name starts to reveal itself doesn’t mean shit. At least, not for him. 

He looks again. 

_Howard_

A smile slowly starts to stretch his mouth as he runs his thumb across it. Relief and excitement starting to bubble up in earnest, now. 

He has a soulmate. 

Suddenly, a knock comes on his door and his mother calls, “Tommy, are you up yet?”

“Coming—” he replies automatically, then, wiping his face, he yells, “Hey, mom!” 

Breakfast is filled with eager chattering, his mother doting on him in a way she hasn’t in years, standing behind him while seated at at the table, smoothing her hands over the crown of his head. Louise asks him all sorts of questions after inspecting his wrist and accusing him of writing the name himself in Sharpie. His dad gives him a good-natured roll of the eyes and a big grin that means more to Tommy than anything he could ever say. A moment of normalcy in a surreal moment of being the center of the Vietor universe, even if only for fifteen minutes.

He takes the allowable day off of school, and spends it feeling light and buoyant and strange, but… not in a bad way. It feels like the first in a series of steps laid out farther than he could ever see. Like he’s starting a journey bigger than himself, and he’s still getting his bearings for the rules.

Who is _Howard?_ What is he like? How would they meet?

… _would they_ meet?

Of course they would. Will. Tommy just got his mark, he’s not going to lose himself thinking about never finding his person. He has plenty of time.

***

Tommy doesn’t meet a Howard until spring semester of his sophomore year at Kenyon—the professor of his Existentialism class, in fact, because the Universe has an incredible sense of humor.

When he gets the syllabus hand-out on the first day and he reads _Dr. Howard J. Sherman_ his eyes go wide and he feels his body go cold and he slinks down in is seat, suddenly mortified for a reason he can’t explain. His eyes dart from the syllabus to the telltale privacy wristband the professor has secured over his left wrist, obscuring his mark from the class. It’s smart, Tommy thinks. Probably school policy. 

It’s also infuriating. 

Partway through the semester, Tommy starts to think Dr. Sherman isn’t bad looking at all. He’s younger than the entire Philosophy Department. Probably something like 35. Dark, curly hair. Glasses. Kind of a wiry build, like maybe he’s be a runner or a tennis player. As midterms roll around, Tommy realizes he’s actually kind of funny and over spring break, when he makes the trip back home to Dedham, he wonders… is this what his life is going to be like, now? Constantly on the lookout for any Howard who happens to enter into his life and start to slowly convince himself he’s in love with him? How many more Howards can he possibly meet if it took five years to find _one?_

It’s a crisis that inspires his final paper proposal: _Soulmate: The Other, or Existential Threat?_

The week he gets back from break, he doesn’t have regular Thursday class, but instead, he’s required to meet with Dr. Sherman in a one-on-one meeting to talk about his proposal. It also just so happens to be a few days away from March 23rd, the anniversary of getting his mark, and he feels like the world is caving in, a little bit. Tommy wears his wristband since they’ll be in close proximity, and he tries not to think about how his Philosophy professor might be his soulmate, instead focusing on the sources he’s going to use for his paper. The Other—the counterpart required to defining the Self—will be his framework, which means he needs… Kierkegaard… Hegel… Levinas…

“I’d also recommend Derrida,” Dr. Sherman suggests, looking over Tommy’s proposal.

Tommy can’t pay attention, because he realized in the five minutes of walking into Dr. Sherman’s office that he isn’t wearing his wristband, but Tommy can’t see the name from this angle and he’s pretty sure it’s going to kill him.

“I like what you have here, Tommy. Not the most original topic, but the angle you’re working is good, and I’m interested in seeing where you take it.” Dr. Sherman reaches over and hands Tommy his proposal, flashing his wrist. 

_Célia_

A giant sigh of relief escapes Tommy and fills the entire room.

Dr. Sherman’s eyebrows lift and a laugh startles out of him. “Were you really that worried?”

Tommy can’t speak for almost ten full seconds, he has to cover his spluttering with nervous laughter. Finally, he says. “You have no idea.”

He gets an A- on his final paper. 

Dr. Sherman leaves a few comments in red ink in the blank space beneath his conclusion: _Good use of Kierkegaard and Derrida. Levinas section needs more development. Overall, a well-executed argument. Citations need some work. If you’re still interested in this topic next fall, I recommend the Epistemology and Feminist Philosophy seminars. Good having you in class._

***

By senior year, he’s dated three people whose names aren’t even close to _Howard_ and his capstone paper, _Free Will in a Fated World_ wins him $250, the Kenyon College Franklin Miller Award—given to students who make “significant or unusual academic contributions to the college”—and an interview with the school newspaper. He’s quoted saying, _I’m not a skeptic; I think there’s a reason this name is on my wrist. But I don’t think that means the hope of one day meeting this person should overshadow everything else in my life._

Two years later, he turns down an offer to work for John Kerry’s presidential campaign so he can work for a guy from Chicago who’s planning to run for Illinois State Senate: Barack Obama.

***

Washington is… well, sometimes, he gets lost in the metaphors, right? Because it’s not a cesspool. It’s not a swamp. Not entirely, anyway. Parts of it, sure. Parts of it are gross. Nasty. But a lot of it is really humbling and cool. It’s historic. It’s democracy in action. Yeah, it’s also lobbying and press vultures (which he tries not to be while also being… a press secretary). But it’s also this thriving, beautiful, diverse community. And he learns more about… fucking _everything_ once he joins the Obama team than he ever thought possible.

And for the first time since it appeared, his life doesn’t revolve around the name on his wrist. 

And he loves it.

***

When he meets Jon in 2005, he falls hard and fast. How could he not?

That clichéd bullshit people cite as evidence of meeting their soulmate—like having a moment where something clicks inside of them and it all feels right, or this warmth that never really goes away spreading out from inside their chest to their entire body—well, all of that happens to him when he meets Jon. 

Six months go by in a blur. Chronically attached at the hip. Instantly comfortable with each other. Instantly familiar. Finishing each other’s sentences and spending all their free time together. It feels like there’s always been a Jon-shaped hole in his life and Jon was just waiting to slide into it with a Dunkin Donuts iced coffee in hand and a bright gap-toothed smile that could melt his heart.

And it feels like a sick joke, kind of. No, it’s a huge fucking disaster, actually.

Tommy watches Jon sometimes and looks at the way he is with other people, trying to figure him out; he wonders if he’s special, or if this is just the way Jon is. Does everybody Jon meets feel like he’s theirs for five minutes while they wait for a cab together or take the El or sit across from him eating a hot dog late at night? How can Tommy feel all of this when Jon’s name isn’t the one on his wrist? Is this some kind of test? What the fuck does it mean?

Well, one thing it definitely means is that whatever it is between them can never really go anywhere, not seriously. Not like _that_ , anyway; Jon’s a true believer. Sure, he talks like Tommy does about not wanting to waste time, about not sequestering himself into some kind of ascetic life like a priest, but Tommy knows—can feel it nagging at him like a tooth that desperately needs to be pulled—that he and Jon could never really make a run at it for keeps. And not just Tommy, but anyone who isn’t Jon’s person. Deep down, Jon’s waiting, and he’ll continue to wait for as long as it takes to find him. 

Tommy knows it’s a guy Jon’s waiting for because he finally catches sight of his mark one night in the thick of his heartache on a flight back to Illinois from Washington.

_Jonathan_

Tommy’s never met someone who had their own name on their wrist before, and he imagines the look on his face is one for the books. 

Jon catches him and glances down, a soft smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Pretty cool, huh?”

Tommy looks back up at him. “It doesn’t bother you?”

“No. No, not at all. Why would it?” Jon’s brow furrows in the way it does when he’s taken by surprise. But he’s not upset, just kind of bemused. 

“Seriously?”

Jon nods, once. “Seriously.”

“You never thought it was weird or like. Maybe you didn’t actually have one?” _One_ being a soulmate; Tommy isn’t sure he can say the word. 

“No. Because it’s not blank, is it? There’s a name there. Just happens to be mine, too.”

Tommy purses his lips, not quite following Jon, trying to suss out where he’s going. 

Luckily, Jon throws him a line. “Look—you have a name on your wrist, right?”

The fact that Jon would ask makes Tommy’s head spin. “Of course,” he replies, knee-jerk.

“And it’s not ‘Thomas’, right?”

“No.”

“Which means that whenever you look at it, you see someone else’s name. Some person who is supposed to be like… made just for you, right? And that is a _hell_ of a lot of pressure on someone. Not just the other person, but on _you_ , too. Just knowing soulmates exist _at all_ is a fucking head trip.”

 _Yeah. It really fucking is,_ Tommy thinks.

“So when I look down and I see _my_ name there…” Jon continues, touching his mark, “It’s like… it reminds me that I’m still me. That I’m a whole, complete person, and—” 

Tommy shakes his head, interrupting, “But that’s not what that means at all.”

“To _you,_ ” Jon shrugs. “To _you_ it doesn’t mean that. But to me? Right now? It does. I don’t have to worry about losing my mind at trying to figure out if somebody’s the One or just… Alison or Derek or someone that the world thinks is less-than because they’re not _mine._ Y’know? It reminds me that the only person I need to worry about is me. I’m not suddenly less-me because I don’t have somebody else right now. And when it happens, when my Jon _does_ show up… I’ll know it.”

They sit in what Tommy thinks is an uneasy kind of silence after that, and they don’t talk about it again that night. What is there to say?

The whole thing really fucks him up for a while. Not just the conversation, which seemed to knock at the door inside of Tommy where he’d hidden away all the thoughts about Howard and who he was and whether or not he was even fucking _out there_ to find. Because Tommy had read those stories, same as anyone, about someone finding out their soulmate had given up hope and had started a family with some other person. Or had died tragically before their person could meet them. Or didn’t believe and turned them away. He’d read those horror stories and stuffed the details of them away, not to be looked at until he picked at that particular scab again, like he knew he would. 

He pokes around his neighborhood in Chicago to see if there’s any support groups he can attend. He knows they’re out there. Even finds a listing at the new coffee shop down the street from his place. He memorizes the group names and the addresses, but he can’t work up the courage to go and decides to bury himself in the job instead because it’s always worked before, and what choice does he have anyway when he really needs to get over Jon before it becomes, like, a problem he has to Handle. 

Jon notices Tommy pulling away, for better or worse. And it comes to a head a couple months later.

“Hey—did I do something to piss you off,” he asks late one night, when Tommy’s on his way out of the mostly-empty office. 

Tommy turns to look at Jon, his face pinched with genuine concern. He’s not annoyed or angry—he’s hurt. Like he’s saying it now because it’s become too much to carry around with him and if he doesn’t, it’ll crush him; even his shoulders are slumped under its weight.

Tommy’s eyes fall closed and he feels like an asshole. “No, man, look—I’ve just. I’ve had a lot on my plate,” he says, a tightness in his voice that betrays something going on beneath the surface. 

Jon’s eyes narrow a fraction as he scrutinizes Tommy from across his desk. “Would you even tell me if it was something else?”

That’s fair. Tommy’s earned that suspicion. And, honestly, his first instinct is to tell Jon the truth, because lying to him about this feels wrong. He can hear himself saying the words that have crossed miles inside his brain since first thinking them: _I think we belong together. Like maybe the Powers That Be got it wrong. Like maybe I wear this fucking wristband all the time because I don’t like looking at someone’s name that isn’t yours._

He can see it, too, inside his head, like a scene ripped out of a movie. He guesses that’s what love does, though: Makes you see the world in cinemascope. 

So Tommy smiles as much as he can and he says, “Yeah, Jon. You know I would.” He takes a few steps toward Jon’s desk and sits on the corner of it, which makes Jon sit back in his chair so he can look up at him. 

“Hey, uh—” Tommy starts, adopting a Southie drawl. “You wanna get outta here and get a grinder?”

With that, Jon’s dazzling smile comes back and it takes Tommy’s breath away. 

“Sure, I think there’s a shop up by th’harbor,” Jon shoots back, and they walk out of the office laughing together. 

They stay out walking and talking about everything but the fucking names on their wrists until almost 1:00 in the morning. And by the time he puts himself to bed that night, Tommy has the hope that things will get better. 

They have to, right?

***

September 16th of 2006, he’s called into a meeting with Gibbs first thing in the morning—almost the literal minute he steps off the elevator with the largest coffee money can buy and a headache that will not go away.

Gibbs shuts the door behind him, which means it’s serious. 

“This meeting is confidential,” Gibbs says, which is unprecedented. “I don’t want to hear word about it until it’s formally announced.”

“Uh, okay,” Tommy says, taking his messenger bag off and setting his coffee on Gibbs’ desk as he sits down. “You have my attention.”

Gibbs doesn’t sit, he stands a little away from Tommy and leans against the desk, arms folded across his chest. “Barack’s running for President.” 

“Holy shit,” Tommy mutters, his eyebrows nearly lifting off his forehead. 

“Exactly,” Gibbs says, pointing at him. 

“Wow.” Tommy reaches for his coffee, shaking his head once. “All right, then.” It’s Game Time.

“We need somebody running point for us out in Iowa, ASAP.”

Tommy looks up. “Me?”

Gibbs nods. “You. Do you want it?”

“Fuck. I mean. _Yeah._ Yeah, I want it.”

“Good.”

“When?”

“Beginning of October at the absolute latest.”

Two weeks.

“Can I commute from here or—?”

“No, we need you there, on the ground in Des Moines.”

“Living there?”

“Living there. Getting to know the locals, making inroads… all of that.”

He blinks. “For how long?”

Gibbs lets out a small, amused breath. “Until we win Iowa.”

Tommy can feel himself nodding, even though he can’t really feel much more of his body past the pins and needles. 

“Do you need some time to think about it,” Gibbs asks.

Tommy swallows and searches himself, for some small part screaming _No,_ or _Wait._ But he finds none. 

“No,” Tommy says. “No, I’m in.”

Gibbs gives a small smile and picks up the phone. “Okay, then.” He offers his hand to Tommy.

Tommy looks at it for a moment before reaching out and shaking it. 

“I’m gonna get on this right away, and I’ll let you know when I have some more details, all right?”

Recognizing this is his cue to go, Tommy grabs his coffee and his bag. “Thanks, Gibbs.”

When he leaves Gibbs’ office, he runs into Jon, who’s coming in from outside. 

Jon looks between Tommy and Gibbs’ door and his brows lift. “What’s up?”

Tommy scans the office quickly and gives Jon a gentle push back toward the elevator. “C’mon,” he murmurs. 

Jon follows automatically.

Once they’re alone, safely inside the elevator cab, Tommy presses the button to the lobby and says, low, “Barack’s running.”

“I fucking knew it,” Jon crows. “Holy shit.”

“That’s what I said.”

“So—fuck, we’re doing this.”

Tommy grins, “Yeah.”

“What did Gibbs want? You get promoted?”

“Uh, yeah, in a way.”

“What does that mean?”

“We need someone to run point in Iowa and… you’re looking at him.”

Jon shoves Tommy, “Get the fuck out!”

Tommy ends up with his back against the wall of the cab, laughing a little, all of it feeling a little surreal. 

“Jesus, is there anything else I need to know?”

“I…” Tommy starts, and then closes his mouth. 

“What,” Jon prompts. 

“I’m moving. To Iowa.”

Jon’s face freezes before falling. “What?”

“Sounds like I’m gonna be living in Des Moines, setting up HQ.”

Everything goes very still and silent and Jon looks suddenly at a loss. 

“But. We just…”

Tommy’s brow furrows, confused. “‘Just’ what?”

Jon crowds Tommy in against the wall of the elevator, and leans forward like he’s going to kiss him. 

Tommy turns his face away quickly, his mouth going slack in some kind of shock. 

“Fuck,” Jon curses under his breath, pulling away from Tommy, “I’m sorry. I—” he rubs his hands over his face, frustrated. “Christ.”

The elevator dings and the doors slide open and Tommy exits immediately, leaving Jon in his wake, along with ten other people who rush into the cab impatiently. Any number of them could be their co-workers on their way up. 

Tommy walks around the block like a zombie for almost twenty minutes before he dares go back upstairs, and he does everything he can to avoid Jon for the rest of the day.

_Fuck._

***

A few days later, he’s on the ground in Des Moines. The two things on the agenda for the short trip are meeting the skeleton staff that’s in the middle of hiring, and finding a place for him to live. The closer to the city the better.

At first, he considers renting an apartment—he’ll only be there a couple of years. But when he really starts to scope it out, he ends up drifting into the suburbs, and late in the day that second day, he falls in love with and signs on this cute little brick two-bedroom house on a quiet, unassuming street not too far from an elementary school and the community center. It’s not all that big, but at $850 a month, with a half-finished basement, fireplace, and central air, he really can’t complain. 

He’s completely moved in and unpacked by October 3rd. The neighbors are nice. Genuine. Friendly. There’s Bob and Judy across the street, who bring him a fresh pumpkin pie the day he moves in. Ron and Sandra next door, who bring him a fresh loaf of Ron’s sourdough bread once the moving truck leaves. And Connie and Rhea behind him, who stop by to give him a bottle of pinot and tell him where to order the best pizza in town. 

By the time he settles in that first night, he can’t sleep; after living in Chicago for so long, it’s too quiet. But the house is his. And he’s in Iowa. Jon is over 350 miles away, and that’s where Tommy keeps him—away, in Chicago. 

And the next day, when Tommy gets to his new office… things fall into place. People are excited. Passionate. Hopeful. The things that lit him up inside were reflected on the faces of everyone there. It’s like breathing in fresh air for the first time in months. Feeling the sun on his face after a long winter of his own creation. It feels like possibility again. 

It feels like he’s exactly where he needs to be.

***

“Vietor.”

It’s almost 8:00 PM on the Thursday after Christmas, and Tommy’s in between calls with someone from the _Register_ , trying to fact-check and get an interview on the books. 

“Tommy.”

Tommy sits up straight and presses the handset more firmly against his ear. “Gibbs, hey—I’m sorry, I swear, I’ll have that stuff over to you in fifteen minutes, tops—”

“No, hey—that’s not why I’m calling.”

“Oh. What’s, uh—what’s up?”

“We’re going to be setting up three interviews with candidates for Traveling Press Secretary in a few weeks. We want you there.”

Earlier in the month, word had come down that the campaign had quietly scooped up Bill Burton to be Obama’s National Press Secretary, and Gibbs had been offered Communications Chief.

“‘Traveling Press Secretary,’ huh? So whoever it is is going to be with Barack—”

“Every step of the way for the next two years. We need somebody quick. Sharp. They’ve gotta be a bulldog for us.”

“You have some names already?”

“We’re pairing the list down now. Why? You got anybody in mind?”

“Send me who you’ve got and if I know someone who should be on it, I’ll hit you back ASAP.”

“Done. And you can step away for a minute after the New Year?”

“Yeah. ‘Course. Whatever I can do.”

“Thanks, Tommy. Barack asked for you by name, since you’ve been with us since the beginning. He wants your eyes on this.”

Tommy smiles against the receiver, feeling pride swell inside his chest. “Thanks, Gibbs.”

“I’ll get that list out to you now, and if I don’t hear back from you tonight, I’ll get you next week.”

“Yeah. Sounds great. Bye.”

He sets the phone back down and taps his pen against his steno pad, eyes skirting over to his cell phone. He has the urge to text Jon. Let him know he’ll be in town. Maybe they can catch up. Have dinner or something. He thinks about the way things… well, they didn’t _end._ But those last two weeks in Chicago weren’t great after… whatever that was, in the elevator. 

He lets out a sigh and rubs at his eyes. Fuck. 

They’d had brief back-and-forth text conversations around Thanksgiving and Christmas, but there hasn’t been anything since. And with Barack’s official announcement coming soon after the New Year hits… he doesn’t want this pit in his stomach anymore.

Tommy reaches for his phone and types out, _So Gibbs just asked me to come back to Chicago in a few weeks. Interviews, I guess, for Traveling Press Secretary._

He presses send, and feels remarkably calm about it. 

Two minutes later, his phone buzzes and he picks it up to see Jon’s reply, _Someone picking you up from the airport?_

Tommy smiles.

***

It’s January 10th when he lands in Chicago, 22 degrees and overcast. He checked his suitcase since he’s staying the week, so it takes a little longer than the 15 minutes he promises Jon to get off the plane, grab it, and step outside the United terminal.

When he gets outside, he looks around, head swiveling as he ignores the honking and the boarding announcements echoing all around him. He doesn’t see anything familiar, so he reaches for his phone and starts heading toward the American terminal. He stops short when he hears from behind him, “Hey, Dedham!”

He breaks out into a grin and turns around; Jon’s waving at him from about five cars down. 

Tommy pulls open the rear passenger’s side door and sets his suitcase on the seat before sliding into the front seat; he’s instantly greeted with the smell of a bacon, egg, and cheese from Dunkin Donuts. Tommy’s thrilled. “Holy shit, you outdid yourself.”

Jon smiles at him as they pull away from the terminal. “Hey. What can I say? I do what I can.”

Tommy tears into the sandwich and is grateful for the coffee in the console next to him. Suddenly grateful for Jon next to him. Tommy sneaks a look at him. Aviators on and an iced coffee in hand and still fucking smiling like an idiot. It eases something inside Tommy—the nagging worry about whether they could still be alone together and not have it be weird or awkward. 

The first of three interviews goes okay, but there’s a difference in approach. Method. Outlook. Tommy also picks up on something intangible hanging in the room afterward, with Gibbs and Bill—personality differences, maybe. 

That night, Jon offers to drive Tommy to his hotel, since he’s still got Tommy’s suitcase in his car, and Tommy acquiesces readily. He’s tired, not in the mood to do much else but shower and get ready for bed. 

They pull into to the hotel, but instead of going up to the main entrance, Jon turns into the parking lot; Tommy looks at Jon when he shuts off the car. 

“Jon?”

“I, uh.” Jon scrapes his thumbnail across his right eyebrow, and keeps his eyes firmly on the steering wheel as he says, “I want to… apologize… for the elevator, that day you found out you were leaving to go to Iowa.”

Tommy feels his stomach bottom out. 

“For trying to kiss you,” Jon says, with a little more strength. Like everything he’d said before that wasn’t quite accurate and wanted to make sure he was getting this _one thing_ right, if nothing else. 

He goes on, softer, “I didn't want you to go. And I’d been wanting to…”

“To… what?” Tommy can’t manage more than a whisper. 

Jon shakes his head. “You,” he says, simply. “I wanted you.”

Tommy’s ears start to ring. _What?_

“And I didn’t know how to handle it.” 

Jesus Christ. All Tommy had wanted not ten minutes ago was to sleep. He even considered not showering, just crawling into bed and getting fresh sheets from Housekeeping tomorrow; now, he can’t imagine talking himself down enough to sleep. 

“Tom?” Jon’s voice sounds young and far away. 

“Yeah,” Tommy asks, not looking at him.

“I just… needed you to know. It’s been killing me.”

They’re both quiet for a long time. It’s uncomfortable, but neither one of them wants to be responsible for what’ll happen after the silence ends. 

Tommy looks out the windshield of Jon’s car and into the night; he can’t see any stars, and in that moment, he has this unexpected pang of homesickness for Iowa. For the quiet. And the dark. And the stars. For the place he’d gone to get away from Jon. Because that’s part of what Iowa was, whether he wanted to admit it or not—a place to get away from what he felt like was the unfairness of it all. _What good is a soulmark if the person you want more than anything isn’t your soulmate,_ he remembers thinking. 

Six months ago, this would have been everything he needed. If Jon had given him even a _hint_ that he’d wanted him… it would have changed everything.

The dull, sustained ache in his gut and his chest feels fitting—it’s old and familiar, and he hadn’t realized how he’d carried this walking wound with him everywhere until it had faded and started to heal. 

“Say something,” Jon murmurs. 

Blinking, Tommy looks at Jon. There are too many things crowding his brain and fighting for voice. But when he opens his mouth, what comes out is, “I didn’t know.”

Jon looks down at the steering wheel again and nods. “I know.”

Tommy licks his lips and tries to weigh whether or not he should tell Jon everything, or if maybe it’s enough to hear the words he’d been desperate to hear, even if they’re coming too late. Maybe it’ll be enough to feel comfort that he wasn’t crazy. That Jon had at least looked at him and at one point saw him as the person he wanted to blur the edges of himself with, if only for a little while. That each of them had chosen the other, at one point in time. But that time is not now, and it feels like that time has passed. 

While there is some comfort in it, mostly it just feels like the final punchline of a joke. 

“Why are you telling me this,” Tommy asks quietly. 

“Because you deserve to know. And because… I don’t want to not have you in my life anymore.”

“So you mean you want to be friends.” It feels so hollow echoing inside his chest. 

“Of course I want to be your friend, you fucking idiot,” Jon says, sounding pissed and hurt. 

This is one of those moments that Tommy hates his philosophy degree with his whole heart, because all he can think about are useless quotes from old, dead men, which helps about as much as it sounds like it would.

When asked, _What is a friend?_ Aristotle replied, _A single soul dwelling in two bodies._

Foucault once described true love as a love _without disguise._ True love, he said, _does not conceal because it has nothing to hide. It has nothing shameful which has to be hidden. It does not shun the light. It is willing, and is such that it is always willing to show itself in front of witnesses. It is also a love which does not conceal its aims._

But perhaps, most tellingly or appropriately, or what the fuck ever, from Kierkegaard: _To cheat oneself out of love is the most terrible deception; it is an eternal loss for which there is no reparation, either in time or in eternity._

He should have told Jon how he felt. 

He shouldn’t have been such a fucking coward. 

God, what a _waste_.

But it’s _not._ It’s not a waste at all. It just maybe feels like it is. Right now, in this moment.

He lets out this strangled sound—a laugh and a sob together—which has Jon reaching for him in a hug in the front seat of his car, in the middle of fucking January outside a hotel in Chicago. This is exactly what Tommy argued in his capstone paper at Kenyon; this is exactly what Jon told him about when discussing his mark on the plane together. Soulmates— _love_ —should not be the only thing a person lives for; it shouldn’t overshadow everything else. Friendship shouldn’t feel like a fucking consolation prize. Because it’s not. In a world built on fate, choosing someone is freedom. That’s still true, even if the choosing isn’t romantic. 

But it doesn’t mean this moment doesn’t hurt. 

So Tommy leans into it. Feels it, fully, in the hopes of finally letting it go. For over a year, Tommy kept all of it a secret for fear of losing Jon. And now? Jon’s telling him he wants nothing more than to stay. So the only thing left for Tommy to do is to say the words. 

“I love you, Jon,” he chokes out against Jon’s shoulder. 

As soon as the words are out of his mouth, everything freezes. He takes a deep breath in through his nose and and closes his stinging eyes. 

Jon responds immediately: “I love you, too, man,” and squeezes Tommy so tightly his ribs ache in protest. 

He lets out another breathless laugh. 

If this is what Jon is offering… he’ll take it. And he’ll work to earn and keep it.

***

It’s almost midnight when he finally checks into the hotel and gets up to his room; the inside of his face hurts, and he feels utterly, utterly drained.

He gets into the shower so he can rinse the day from his skin, and so he can have hope of feeling halfway rested tomorrow. He lets the water run along the back of his neck and down his spine. He imagines the water washing away a layer of dirt or grime from his body, leaving him clean. Like new. 

By the time he shuts off the light, it’s after 1:00 AM; he looks at his clock for the last time around 2:00 and logs about three hours of sleep. So he catches a cab into the office early, arriving at quarter to 7:00, figuring he might as well use the time to play a little catch-up. 

Jon waves at him and taps his wrist when he walks in, indicating that he notices Tommy’s in early; Tommy rolls his eyes before flashing a grin, which Jon returns, and it feels a little like shades of 2005, for a moment.

That day’s interview goes better than the first—no obvious personality clashes—but there’s something that doesn’t quite connect all the way, for Tommy. He doesn’t know how to describe it to Gibbs, but he just nods and says, “This is why you’re here, Vietor. Trust your gut.”

Jon’s working late when he feels done for the night, so he goes, grateful to cab it back to the hotel and collapse onto the bed with a Polish sausage special from this little Vienna Beef hot dog stand outside of HQ and a beer, completely passed out before 11:00 PM.

***

While doing research his senior year, Tommy came across a book of poetry about soulmarks. It held sonnets, verses, and songs of prayer going back to the middle ages, interspersed with black and white lithographs. It had some of the most heartrending, ecstatic, mournful things Tommy had ever seen, but in the five years since reading it, most have faded entirely—except one very small poem.

Near the end of the book, on pages 186 and 187, there was a single line of poetry, resting at the bottom-right corner of two otherwise blank pages.

_the body knows_

He doesn’t think those words will ever go away, for him. No matter how many years might pass. They surface from time to time in his mind—a reminder, stretching across ages, and lifetimes.

***

Tommy wakes a full hour before he intends to get out of bed, stomach a tangle of knots, with the beginnings of a headache pounding slightly at his temples. It’s weird. Disorienting. In the sluggish haze after waking, he doesn’t understand where it might be stemming from: He slept hard, logging more hours than he hoped he might, and felt fine all of yesterday. It’s not indigestion—the Polish special sat surprisingly well with him, like he never left.

After draining the full glass of water on the nightstand, he gets up slowly and heads to the bathroom to splash some cold water on his face. He grabs one of the towels from the small stack Housekeeping left the day before, and looks at himself in the mirror. He doesn’t look pale or sick. He feels… he does a quick scan of his body, trying to diagnose himself. Comes up with… nervous? Which doesn’t… track fully. He’d been excited for today. Hopeful for this last Traveling Press Secretary candidate. He wipes off his face and tries to come fully awake so he can find better answers. 

After a few more moments, coming up relatively empty-handed, he finally decides to hop in the shower to try and shake it off. 

He takes his time, cranks the water temperature, and lets the hot water loosen the muscles in his back and neck, easing his tension and the sick feeling still churning inside him. 

By the time he steps out, he feels boiled and awake, and tentatively better. 

As he towels off, his eyes keep catching on his mark. 

_Howard_

Most of the time, he notes its presence, but doesn’t dwell on it; sometimes, he even forgets it’s there. But something about seeing it against the stark white of the towel… it almost looks darker? Or something? He moves closer to the light of the vanity and holds his left wrist up, smoothing his right thumb over it unconsciously. 

_Howard_

Upon inspection, he can’t really say what’s different about it, except that it just… looks different. It feels different on his skin. Not that there’s a _feeling_ attached to it, per se. But just… _inside his skin_ … it feels different. 

He gets another pang of nerves in the pit of his stomach while he’s getting dressed, and his heart starts to race. Dropping heavily onto the edge of the bed, he puts a hand to his chest and he takes a deep breath in through his nose, suddenly realizing what the hell is happening. 

_Howard_

Today’s the day.

Holy shit.

***

How do you prepare yourself for love?

For meeting the person who’s supposed to be the other half of you? 

For finally laying eyes on the person you’ve been waiting for since you were young and wanting so desperately to be known and loved? 

_How?_

These are the questions heavy on Tommy’s heart as he sits in the back of a cab, looking out at the Chicago River, trying to keep his breathing even. Trying to remember how to take air into his lungs without throwing up. At this rate, he’ll be lucky if he can form complete sentences. 

When he steps out of the cab, it’s like he can feel the weight of countless eyes on him. As though the entire city is watching expectantly, anticipation rising inside and all around him. He hurries into the building with his head down.

The final interview isn’t until 11:00, so he takes comfort in knowing he has plenty of time to pull it together.

***

Around 10:00, Jenny from PR swings by to tell him a group of kids from CPS will be stopping by the office any minute to take an office tour and they still need a guide. Since Tommy’s visiting, would he consider doing the rounds with them?

He gives a genuine smile. “Yeah, of course.”

The kids are excited and surprisingly tenacious; they all ask great questions. Their teacher explains how they learned the way a bill becomes a law the week before, so Tommy quizzes them with easy yes or no questions. They all answer loudly, in unison, correctly and Tommy goes around to everyone to give them high-fives and American flag stickers. 

They end the tour outside Barack’s office, everyone chatting animatedly, delighted and nervous about the prospect of meeting him in person; Tommy doesn’t notice the time, or the man sitting quietly near the window. 

After a few moments, the office door opens, and Barack steps out without his suit jacket and his sleeves rolled to his elbows, an infectious grin on his face as soon as he catches sight of the kids.

The man by the window stands, and Barack turns to acknowledge him and shake his hand—“Dan, how’re you doing?”—and then promptly excuses himself so he can say hello to the children. 

Tommy watches the man watch the senator as he starts talking to the students like they’re kids from his neighborhood, and he realizes this must be the last interview. He makes his way over to introduce himself, since he has the opportunity.

The man looks at him with the bluest eyes Tommy’s ever seen, and a soft, easy smile that feels like it’s just for him, not as a consequence of the heartwarming scene happening all around them; Tommy’s heart skips a beat.

“Hey, I’m Tommy,” he says, offering his hand, “Tommy Vietor. Press Secretary in Iowa.”

“Tommy,” the man says, a little hushed, and a small thrill runs through Tommy at the sound. He blinks and then takes Tommy’s hand. “I’m Dan. Pfeiffer.” 

Tommy grins, “Good to meet you. Thanks for coming out here instead of the D.C. office.”

“No, this is good, I’m still taking care of business in Indianapolis,” Dan says, letting go of Tommy’s hand. 

“Oh, right, you were Bayh’s guy.” It’s out of his mouth before he can censor himself, and he winces slightly at his lack of tact.

Dan laughs in what sounds like real amusement, not just politeness or self-deprecation. “Yeah, until I wasn’t.”

“Sorry,” Tommy says, “Tough break.”

Shrugging, still smiling, still looking at Tommy, with it all still feeling as though this conversation is just between the two of them and not in the middle of a crowded room, Dan says, “But I’m here now. And I’m feeling good.” 

The words tug at something inside Tommy’s chest and he feels heat rise to his face. Tilting his head to the side, Tommy wonders… is this guy… flirting? With him?

“Hey, Tommy,” Barack calls to him, “Can you take a picture of all of us?”

Looking over his shoulder, not missing a beat, Tommy answers, “Absolutely.”

He takes the camera offered by the teacher and looks through the viewfinder, trying to puzzle out how everyone should arrange themselves. “Okay, everyone scrunch together,” Tommy instructs, waving people in toward the center. 

“Is he always like this,” Tommy hears Dan ask from behind him, and when he turns his head to look at him, Dan’s looking once more at Barack and the kids. 

Tommy turns back and sees Obama giving one of the taller children a laugh and a high five. “Yeah,” he says finally, looking through the viewfinder again. “It’s real. It’s just who he is.”

Tommy ends up taking about ten pictures in total, and the senator spends another five minutes with the kids, thanking each of them individually for coming to visit him and his staff. 

The sing-song chorus of “Bye, Senator Obama!” as the group heads toward the elevators pulls at Tommy’s heartstrings. 

He only catches the slightest glimpse of Dan disappearing into Barack’s office by the time he looks back, and he finds himself eager to hear how everything goes.

***

It’s not quite been an hour into the interview when Tommy’s called down to the lobby to help TJ sort out some kind of screw up with lunch; he’s gone ten minutes. By the time he gets back upstairs, Dan and Obama have finished with their interview, and he sees Dan and Gibbs shaking hands.

Jon’s waiting for him when he gets back to his desk. “Did you hear? Pfeiffer’s in.”

Tommy’s stunned. “What?”

“Barack offered him the job personally and he accepted on the spot. No negotiating, no 24 hours to think about it—he’s in.”

“Holy shit,” he says, turning to get another look at Dan, who’s laughing with a few people from Comms. “That’s amazing.”

“Did you get a chance to scope him out,” Jon asks. 

Tommy watches as Dan heads over to Bill’s office and shakes his hand. “We talked for a minute. Seems cool.”

“Well, that’s good, at least. I got some dirt from people on the Hill.”

“Yeah? Like what?”

“Workaholic. Funny. Basketball freak. Asshole. No bullshit.”

Tommy’s lips quirk upward. “Basketball, hm?”

“Sixers.”

“Oh ho, fuck, I can’t wait to give him shit about that,” Tommy says, delighted.

“Since when do you like basketball?”

“Doesn’t matter if I do or not—if he’s a Sixers fan, he _hates_ Boston. Matter of principle. I can rub it in.”

“Aren’t the Celtics in last place this year?”

“Dude, I’m talking about a _legacy team_. Bill Russell, Larry Bird, John Havlicek.”

“Didn't the Sixers have like… Dr. J and Wilt Chamberlain and…”

Tommy shoots Jon a look. “Whose side are you on, North Reading?”

A smirk starts to pull at the corner of Jon’s mouth. “Are you…” Something passes over his face, then. Realization. “You _are._ ”

“ _No_ ,” Tommy assures him, shaking his head. “It’s not like that.”

“Mm-hmm,” Jon hums skeptically, arching a single brow. “It’s written all over you, man. Be a little less obvious tonight.”

The back of his neck and his ears go hot and Tommy knows he’s turning a bright shade of pink. “What do you mean ‘tonight’?”

“Some of us are going out after. The Matchbox.”

“Oh. Yeah. That sounds good,” Tommy replies, a little distantly. The handles of the food bags hanging off of his arms start to dig in in earnest, so he lifts them in explanation and says, “I gotta go… get lunch ready, I guess.”

“See you later, bag boy,” Jon tosses over his shoulder. 

Tommy’s stomach clenches like he’s just been caught in a lie; his cheeks burn as he heads to the conference room and starts helping TJ lay out the spread of food.

He avoids eye contact with everyone, keeps his head down, and decides to hide out and eat at his desk.

***

It’s not quite “dinner”, but it is drinks and enough snack food that he shouldn’t have to eat by the time he gets back to the hotel.

Dan is awesome. Already sliding into a spot on the team that feels like it was made just for him. Everyone downshifts into that comfortable place of swapping stories from the Hill and campaigns past, and it’s like he’s always been there, with a smart mouth and a quick wit and making these little quips that fit perfectly with the group of them that’s left as the night goes on—the ones who’ve been with Barack since early ’06, and some of them, like he and Jon, from ’05.

Tommy watches him, dazzled. Fascinated. Who _is_ this guy? 

He has this way about him that’s unique. Like a lot of people in politics, Dan speaks with his hands, but Tommy notices his brain moves much faster than his mouth, so there’s this… softness around his words. It’s not a lisp or a speech impediment, but it’s like his tongue struggles a little to keep up at the pace his brain processes and predicts what’s coming next, already building a case or rebuttal for whatever’s needed. When his attention is on someone, it’s fully there—his gaze intense and focused. He only looks away when he’s bored or doesn’t care for what’s being said and decides not to say anything in response; Tommy can see the way the words rise in his throat and he makes the conscious decision to not share them. 

And those _eyes._ Tommy can feel the weight of them whenever they’re on him, and it makes him shift in his seat and try to be stealthy as he looks away. God, he hasn’t felt like this in… years. Since…

He looks down at his left wrist, and the thumb of his right hand, which has been absently running over his mark, hidden by his wristband.

_Howard_

Shit. How was it even possible that Tommy had fucking _forgotten_ about Howard? That today was the day—he’d been sure of it. Did Tommy miss him? Did he let their chance slip by because he was losing himself in watching Dan? In trying to figure him out?

His pulse starts pounding in his ears and he looks around furtively, trying to assess whether anyone else notices him having this quiet moment of panic. Jon left an hour ago, and Tommy sees the few folks remaining from the office saying their goodbyes. That means he's alone with Dan at the end of the night, which absolutely was not part of the plan.

Dan slides into the seat next to him and offers a warm smile. “Buy you a drink?”

Tommy’s mouth quirks, unable to help it, the panic subsiding as soon as Dan asks the question. “Okay. Yeah, sure.” 

They order with the bartender sit quietly together while they wait, gazes fixed on the wall opposite them. 

“I wondered if you might stick around after the end of this thing,” Dan finally says after they each have one last beer in front of them.

“You did?”

Dan shrugs a single shoulder. “Hoped, anyway.”

A warm feeling blossoms in the center of his chest and ripples outward, and a grin eases its way onto his face, which he aims down into his beer. “Well. You don’t waste any time, do you?” 

“Why should I? Haven’t we waited long enough?”

Tommy turns to look at Dan, and his heart starts thudding hard against the cage of his ribs. “What did you say?” His voice is barely above a whisper.

Maybe Dan sees how nervous and confused he is, because there’s a soft, charmed look in his eyes as he slips off his wristband and shows Tommy his mark, without saying another word. 

_Thomas_

Tommy stops breathing when he sees it. The stem and swoop of the scripted “T” is beautiful; he’s never thought of his name as beautiful before. Traditional. Inherited. Strong. But not beautiful.

His right hand wraps around his left wrist and he looks up at Dan, not quite trusting what he’s seeing, despite how much he suddenly wants to and despite the excitement humming underneath the surface of his skin. “But…”

“‘Howard’ is a family name.”

As soon as Dan gives voice to the name marked on his body, all of Tommy’s hesitancy falls away, all of his worry; it’s as though Dan reached over and turned on the light inside of him.

Tommy tugs his wristband off and Dan lets out a relieved breath as soon as he sees Tommy’s mark. There’s an expression that washes across his features that makes Tommy’s heart ache in recognition: Vulnerability. Tommy swears he can see a younger version of Dan looking out through his eyes, unsure that the mark on his wrist would ever lead to meeting its namesake. Unsure if he was real. Unsure if he should believe or have any hope of it. 

They need to get out of this bar, Tommy thinks suddenly. This moment is too important, too fragile. And Tommy _needs_ it. _God,_ does he need it. 

“Do you wanna get out of here,” he asks, breathless. 

“Yeah,” Dan nods. “Yeah, lemme…” he pulls out his wallet and drops cash onto the counter. “Let’s go.”

***

They’re in the back of a cab, en route to his hotel on the other side of the Loop, their bodies pressed close together forming one solid line. The anticipation hanging in the air is thick and Tommy wants nothing more than to lace their fingers together. Offer some kind of promise or reassurance to both of them, but he can’t figure out the words. Tommy’s nerves are on fire, which reminds him how he awoke this morning.

“Were you nervous before your interview this morning,” Tommy wonders, looking out his window.

“Terribly,” Dan answers. “I felt nauseous when I was trying to shave.” 

Tommy’s lips quirk upward. 

_the body knows_

“Was it that obvious when you saw me this morning?”

“No. I felt it,” Tommy murmurs, turning back to Dan. “I woke up before my alarm went off… and it didn’t make sense, why I felt… sick-to-my-stomach nervous.” Tommy looks down at the places where they’re touching, and he tentatively brushes his fingers agains Dan’s—just the barest hint of skin. “I knew it didn’t belong to me.” Tommy looks up at him. “And I knew today was the day.”

Dan looks steadily back at him and takes his hand. “I knew it was you as soon as I saw you.”

Tommy’s eyes widen and his stomach swoops unexpectedly in this way that makes his throat tight and excitement bubble up inside his chest; he squeezes Dan’s hand.

***

When he turns on the light, Tommy’s grateful that the only thing out of place in his hotel room is his suitcase, on the floor by the window; he doesn’t think he could handle having to scramble around and hide dirty laundry or something—not in front of Dan.

Dan shuts the door behind him and takes off his coat, hanging it up on one of the standard-issue hotel hangers. 

Tommy takes his coat off, too, and Dan extends a hand to hang it up alongside his own. Tommy smiles his thanks before turning and walking further into the room, kicking off his shoes by the desk and loosening his tie, laying it down next to the phone. Dan follows, removing his suit jacket and shoes. 

This is all done in silence. Comfortable but… thick. Coiled like a spring, loaded with too many emotions. Excitement. Nerves. Hope. 

Tommy turns to face Dan, who’s looking back at him with the same warm smile that makes him feel fluttery and bereft of words. Dan offers his hand and Tommy takes it and pulls them toward the bed so they can sit down.

“So, uh…” Tommy starts, a little awkward despite his best efforts. “Hi.”

“Hi,” Dan replies, his voice a little deeper. 

Tommy’s definitely blushing. 

Dan looks down at their hands, and sees the hints of his name poking out from beneath Tommy’s sleeve. He lets go of Tommy’s hand to lift his wrist and look at it. 

_Howard_

“It’s a little weird,” Dan murmurs, brushing the pad of his thumb across it. “Seeing a name I don’t use.” 

“Does it bother you,” Tommy asks, quietly. 

He takes a few beats to think about it—Tommy can see the way his brain works around the question. “No,” he says finally, and tilts his face down to kiss Tommy’s mark. 

A spark of electricity dances up Tommy’s arm at the touch of Dan’s lips to his skin and when Dan looks up at him, Tommy doesn’t hesitate in leaning forward to kiss his mouth. 

It’s not perfect, which is actually a little relieving, but it is great. Maybe his best first kiss. Not hesitating or awkward. They just don’t know how to fit yet, and as he tilts his head to the side and they fit a little better, he thinks that they have plenty of time. They’ll figure it out. And he takes hold of that promise of things yet to come with both hands and pulls Dan closer. Dan wraps an arm around Tommy’s low back, while his other hand settles comfortably along Tommy’s ribs, and he feels held in this moment of stunning awe. 

_We found each other._

When they pull away, Tommy rests his forehead against Dan’s, a breathless laugh rushing out from between his lips. He gives one last, quick kiss before leaning back to look at Dan.

“Where were you born,” Tommy asks.

Dan chuckles, smoothing his hand up and down Tommy’s back. “Is this what we’re doing?”

“Is that okay?”

“Oh, yeah, totally, I just needed the signposting.”

Tommy grins and tilts his chin up. “Okay, so, where were you born?”

“Wilmington, Delaware. You?”

“Dedham, Massachusetts. Outside—”

“Boston,” Dan finishes, shaking his head. “Of all the cities in all the world.”

“What’re the odds,” Tommy murmurs, leaning forward to kiss Dan again softly.

“Do you have any siblings,” Dan asks. 

Tommy looks down at Dan’s throat and shakes his head while reaching up to start undoing his tie. “One sister. Louise. You?”

Dan tilts his head back a little. “A brother, Robert. Well—Bobby.” 

“Bobby,” Tommy repeats, tugging on one end of Dan’s tie and pulling it out from around his neck. “How old were you when you got your mark?”

“Fourteen.”

“Me, too.”

Dan hums, pursing his lips together, rubbing his hand over the curve of Tommy’s ribs. “What was it like?”

Tommy inhales deeply and starts work on unbuttoning Dan’s shirt. “It was okay,” he starts, hedging his answer a bit. “I was the last one to get it in my friend group at the time, so honestly, I was relieved. I’d started to feel like… a freak or something. And then…” he shrugs a single shoulder. “It got harder and more complicated as I got older. When I started realizing what it meant.”

He can feel Dan nod, and by the time he’s done getting Dan’s buttons undone, he looks back up at him. “The last few years have been hard.” 

Dan tilts his head and reaches up to cup Tommy’s face in his hand. “I’m sorry.” 

Tommy leans into Dan’s touch, but doesn’t respond further; he’s not sure he’s ready to talk about more than that just yet. “What about you?”

Nodding, Dan licks his lips. “It was hard when I was younger. I was angry about it for a long time.”

Tommy blinks. “What do you mean?”

“I didn’t really believe in fate, so getting the name of someone I didn’t know and who I was supposedly destined to be with permanently marked on my body was… a lot… to try to deal with at fourteen years old. Well. At any age, really, but especially at fourteen.”

“And now?” Tommy tries not to give away that he’s holding his breath, that he’s hoping for a good answer. But he’s never been great at having any kind of poker face.

Dan leans in and murmurs almost against Tommy’s mouth, “I think I might’ve gotten really fucking lucky.”

Tommy kisses him again and pushes his button-up off of his shoulders, leaving Dan in his undershirt. 

This time, it’s Dan’s turn to pull away first, and Tommy finds himself leaning further in, chasing after another kiss. But Dan tilts his head so he can kiss at the hinge of Tommy’s jaw… and then beneath his jaw, along his throat. 

Tommy lets out a shuddering breath, a little dizzy from all the contact, but loving it. _Loving_ it. 

Dan holds him gently, both of his hands pressing into Tommy’s lower back. “What do you want out of this tonight?”

What does he want? He and Dan _found_ each other. That’s enough, isn’t it? It’s so fucking much. What does he _want?_

_Everything._

“I want you,” Tommy breathes, cupping Dan’s face in his hands. 

Dan makes an eager noise low in his throat and takes a deep breath in, reaching up to start unbuttoning Tommy’s shirt. “Good.” 

“What do you want?”

“You,” Dan says, pushing Tommy’s shirt off his shoulders and down his arms. “I wanna feel like this is real.”

 _Yes._ Tommy’s heart sings its answer inside his chest. _Yes, yes, yes._

He slips his hands under the hem of Dan's undershirt to tease across his stomach, which makes his breath hitch. “Wanna see you,” Tommy says, sure.

Dan settles a hand over both of Tommy’s, stilling them, eyes darkening with arousal. After another moment, he stands, pulling away from the bed so he can pull both shirts off completely. 

Tommy’s left sitting on the edge of the bed looking up at Dan as he reveals his body; the rustle of fabric shifting and being stripped away dances along the length of his spine. Tommy can tell Dan plays ball when he can, probably a pick-up league on Saturdays when he can swing it, with guys who can push him. He’s got a little bit of muscle, but campaign life isn’t kind to anyone, and Tommy can see where he’s getting a little softer. But it doesn’t look bad on him; he looks good. Tommy never thought he’d be attracted to a guy who had chest hair, but. Here he is, reaching out to start undoing Dan’s belt so he can see more of him. “How do you want me,” Tommy asks, voice gravely. 

Dan extends a hand to trace the line of Tommy’s jaw with his the tips of his fingers. “On your back.”

Tommy’s eyes fall closed for a collection of heartbeats at that. _God._

When he opens them again, he slowly pulls Dan’s belt through his belt loops until it's free and drops it onto the floor. Dan reaches down to unbutton his pants and the sound of his zipper rings in Tommy’s ears, making his cock twitch. 

As Dan slides his pants down and removes his socks, Tommy hurries out of his button-up and undershirt and starts working on his own belt. He stands, so he can slip out of his pants, but as soon as he gets them down around his thighs, Dan smirks and pushes Tommy back down onto the bed. Tommy goes easily, laughing and letting Dan pull them off with one good tug before tossing them down onto the carpet. 

While scooting up the bed, Tommy hooks a finger in each of his socks one at a time and throws them over the side of the bed, so both of them are just in their underwear. Dan in his robin’s egg blue cotton boxer shorts as he knees onto the foot of the bed and starts crawling up toward him; Tommy with his navy boxer-briefs, trembling a little. “Wait,” Tommy says, lifting himself up on his elbows.

Dan freezes, his eyebrows lifting up near his hairline.

“Lube,” Tommy explains. “And, ah—condoms. In my shaving kit. In the bathroom. Would… could you…?”

Dan lets out an amused breath, the corners of his mouth curling up in a cheeky smile as he gets off the bed and heads into the bathroom without a word. 

Tommy rolls his eyes up toward the ceiling, letting his head hang back as he tries to get a hold of himself and the grin that seems to be permanently etched onto his face; his toes curl in anticipation as he hears Dan unzip and rummage around inside the brown leather bag that holds his razor and toiletries. He’s kept a small tube of lube and three condoms in there for as long as he can remember. Always prepared. 

Dan comes back into the room with the supplies, and Tommy’s hips rock a little involuntarily watching him, almost fully hard now; Dan sets the condoms and lube on the nightstand. Tommy reaches for him, aching for his touch again. He climbs onto the bed until he’s got knees on either side of Tommy’s hips and he ducks his head to nip along Tommy’s collarbone. 

Tommy slides his hands up Dan’s stomach, along his ribs, up his chest, tugging him closer by the back of the neck, settling more of his weight on top of him; it grounds him, the feeling of being pressed into the bed. He hooks a leg around one of Dan’s and rolls their hips together, eliciting a groan from Dan. 

“Fuck, Tommy…” he breathes into Tommy's neck. 

“Please,” Tommy begs, doing it again, wanting to elicit more of those helpless noises. “Please, fuck me.”

Dan doesn’t hesitate in sitting up, reaching for the lube, and popping the cap as soon as it’s in hand. Dan smirks and murmurs, “Need to get these off,” rocking against Tommy, making him gasp and scramble. 

Tommy crumples his underwear in his hand as he half-drags, half-kicks them down his legs and throws them to the foot of the bed. He feels fully on fire by the time he looks back up at Dan and sees the look on his face, like he’s ready to devour Tommy whole. 

After smearing some lube onto his fingers, Dan sets the bottle beside them on the bed and leans down so their faces are close together, reaching between them.

Tommy gasps as soon Dan’s fingers find his hole, back arching. “ _Please_ , Dan,” he whines, pawing at Dan’s chest.

Dan bares his teeth in a smug grin and dips his middle finger inside to start; it feels like a test. “M’right here. Gotta open you up for me.” His voice is rough. Barely more than a rumble from the back of his throat 

Tommy’s panting and slick with sweat by the time Dan gets one finger inside, and then adds another without warning, wringing a helpless, naked sound out from deep inside him. He rolls his hips down, trying to meet the slow, determined thrusts of Dan’s hand. Growls, “ _Dan_ ,” like if he doesn’t get inside him soon, Tommy will lose it entirely.

Three fingers bring tears to Tommy’s eyes. “Now. _Now_. I need you now.” Tommy’s babbling, sparks firing inside his head, brain starting to short out. “Please.” 

Whether it’s a kindness or whether Dan just can’t wait anymore, Tommy doesn’t know, but it’s then that Dan eases his fingers out of Tommy, drawing out a long moan. 

The absence—the emptiness—is the worst part. Wanting so much to be full. To be pressed so close together and complete. To feel… 

To feel…

It’s had many names through the ages, in many different languages and with varying degrees of poetry. But perhaps the most popular and most widely-used for centuries now, is _Reunion._ The coming together of souls joined by their bond. In some circles, it’s a holy day. A celebration. For others, it’s a private affair. Something quiet and observed in the ways that make sense for them. Some never see it, and spend their lives chasing after it in their dreams. For Tommy, he wondered what it might look like, might _feel_ like. But in fleeting ways, the way one thinks about things so far ahead in the future they can’t be seen clearly; he was always focused on finding the man whose name matched his mark. Stuck on the whys and the whethers. Not the whens. Not the whats which came next. 

Tommy feels Dan’s bare thighs on the backs of his own, and he knows that this is their moment. The one he never prepared himself for. The one he never thought to think about. The one he wasn’t ever sure he’d see. As soon as Dan lines himself up and starts to push in, Tommy rises up off of the bed and wraps his arms around the back of Dan’s neck, pulling them flush together. 

It hurts, at first. Dan’s big. Tommy’s tight, and he surrenders to sensation. 

When Dan’s fully inside him, he lets out a sigh—a contented sound which unwinds slowly from his chest.

_Perfect._

Dan waits, until Tommy says it’s okay.

They start slow, but build and build until it's hard for Tommy to distinguish the sounds of skin on skin and his pulse racing in his ears.

It doesn’t last long at all. How could it? The both of them so eager for it. So hungry. 

Tommy shatters and breaks all over his stomach, and Dan follows suit—pulling out right before and fisting a hand over his cock, taking the condom off and shooting across Tommy’s chest. Marking him. 

It’s unexpected—reverberates all the way down to his bones—and Tommy shivers through it, feeling hot with embarrassment at how much he likes it, and how much he wants to lick it up off of his skin. 

Dan’s shaking too, breathing hard and a little unsteady on his knees. Tommy smiles faintly and reaches toward him. Dan takes gentle hold of Tommy’s wrist and brings his hand up to his cheek, turning to press a kiss to his palm, his eyes never leaving Tommy’s face. 

“Lemme get a towel,” Dan murmurs. “Okay?”

Tommy nods and Dan leans down to kiss Tommy softly. So tender it makes his chest ache. He climbs off the bed, condom in hand, and disappears into the bathroom. 

Tommy's gaze fixes on the ceiling, and he takes in a deep breath through his nose, letting his lungs fill all the way up; he can faintly hear the faucet running in the background. 

Dan comes back with a scrubbed-pink face and a damp white towel and sits on the edge of the bed. He washes Tommy’s belly and chest silently, the towel and Dan’s hand both pleasantly warm. When he’s done, Dan sets the tube of lube on the nightstand and goes back into the bathroom; Tommy imagines him rinsing first the towel and then his hands. 

Finally, Dan emerges from the bathroom and shuts off the light; the room is suddenly filled with the glow from the city, and Tommy feels the heaviness of sleep pressing into him. 

When Dan comes back to the bed, he pulls off the decorative pillows and untucks the blankets and sheets from beneath the mattress.

Tommy watches him, amused and a little dazed. His limbs protest as he slips beneath the covers as Dan gets into bed, too. Dan arranges the both of them until he’s on his back and Tommy is cozied up half on-top of him.

Tommy feels safe like this, in Dan’s arms. He’s heard people call this place—the embrace— _home_ before. When he was younger, he thought it was cliché and didn’t want to believe it; here, in a hotel room in Chicago, with Dan holding him close, skin to skin… he can understand why.

They just hold each other for a while—Tommy listening to Dan’s heartbeat, the way it slows and steadies.

Finally, on the edge of sleep, Tommy whispers, “Did you ever think we’d actually find each other,” his lips barely moving against Dan’s skin. 

Dan sighs deeply, threading his fingers through Tommy’s hair. “I hoped. It took a long time, but I finally got to a place where I could hope for it.”

Tommy hums and presses a small kiss to Dan’s chest and closes his eyes. He doesn't know what the morning will bring. He doesn't know what the future holds. He's spent the last thirteen years wondering who this man is beside him. Wondering if he was even out there to find. And now that they're here together... their pulse and breath synced in time, Tommy is eager for what's next. What Reunion looks like and means for them.

That night, Tommy dreams of possibility.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to the mods of the Exchange for their infinite patience and guidance. 
> 
> Thanks to L, for your keen eyes. For helping me not to panic. For your suggestion which helped springboard this whole idea. And for knowing that I'd write over 10k in a very short amount of time. 
> 
> And finally: Special thanks, as always, goes out to A. My partner in crime, cheerleader, beta, and dear friend. Your belief in me means more than I could ever articulate.


End file.
